Ian was struck by the fact that Gretchen had used nearly the exact same phrase, including the odd grammar. “Yes, thank you,” he said, noting the look of relief on Dickerson’s face.
“I assume you are not here to apologize,” Madame Veselka said, settling into a white painted wicker chair with plush burgundy cushions.
“I do indeed owe you an apology,” Ian said. “My behavior—”
She dismissed him with a wave of her jeweled hand. “I should have realized you were not ready for such a revelation. But when the spirits come, there is little I can do to control what they say.”
Aware that Dickerson was staring at him, Ian pressed onward. “In any case, I was rude, and I am sorry. But as to the real reason for our visit—” he began, as Gretchen appeared with a tea tray. Dickerson brightened visibly at the sight of a plate piled high with golden flaky pastries.
“Gretchen is an excellent cook,” Madame said. “What have we today?”
“Kuchen mit Schlagsahne,” Gretchen replied, setting the tray down on the sideboard.
“Pastries with whipped cream,” Madame Veselka translated.
“Shall I be the mother?” Gretchen asked. Ian made note of her slightly erroneous use of the common phrase. “How do you like your tea, Detective?”
“Milk and one sugar, please,” said Ian.
Once they were served, Madame leaned back in her chair and sipped delicately at her tea. “Now then, Inspector, as to the real reason for your visit. What is it, pray?”
Ian looked at Dickerson, who was biting into a pastry, a look of bliss on his face. “We’re here ’bout a murder,” he mumbled through flakes of Kuchen mit Schlagsahne.
Madame Veselka exchanged a glance with Gretchen. It was hard to tell for certain in the dim light, but Ian thought the girl’s face went a shade paler, and she bit her lip.
The medium turned to Ian. “What has that to do with us?”
“I’m sorry to tell you the victim was one of your clients.”
Madame’s grip tightened on the arm of her chair, but when she spoke, he thought she deliberately tried to sound casual.
“We call them guests, not clients.”
“One of your guests, then.”
“Indeed? Who is the unfortunate person?”
“Elizabeth Staley.”
There was a clattering sound as the teaspoon slipped from Gretchen’s fingers and fell to the floor. “Oh, dear, I am most sorry, Madame!” she said, stooping to pick it up.
“No harm done, my dear,” the medium replied kindly. “Gretchen was rather fond of Miss Staley, and this is quite a shock, as you can imagine.”
“I am sorry to bring you this news.”
“How was she—”
“The results are not yet official, but it appears she was bludgeoned.”
Gretchen gave a little squeak and clapped her hand over her mouth.
“Oh, dear,” said Madame Veselka. “This is most distressing.”
Ian looked at Sergeant Dickerson, who was digging into his second pastry. “Your notebook, Sergeant?”
“Right—sorry, sir!” he said, hastily extracting it from his pocket.
“How long has Miss Staley been coming here?”
“Sechs—six months,” Gretchen blurted out.
“Surely not that long,” Madame Veselka corrected her. “Isn’t it more like four months?”
“Perhaps you are right, Madame. Yes, of course,” the girl replied, looking away. “Not more than four months. But she has not missed a week, I think.”
“Can you think of anyone who might wish her harm?”
The medium shook her head. “I know very little of her, apart from the fact that she has a dead sister—she came to me desperate to contact her.”
“Did she have any success?”
“She did, I am glad to say.”
“Which explains her continuing presence month after month.”
Madame Veselka frowned. “There is no guarantee that those on the other side will cooperate, Inspector. I explain that to all my guests.”
“And yet you seem to have an impressive success rate.”
She fixed him with a critical stare, and he noticed for the first time how large her dark eyes were, the irises almost as black as the pupils. “You have made your position clear, Mr. Hamilton,” she said icily. “However,” she continued, leaning into him, “you cannot hide forever. What happened the other night was no fluke, I can assure you.”
Sergeant Dickerson frowned and bit the tip of his pencil. “Wha’ is she on about, sir?”
“Nothing of import, Sergeant,” Ian replied.
“Is there a record book of your—guests?” Dickerson asked.
“I’m afraid not.”
“Could you make us one?” said Ian.
“I suppose so. I have a good memory for people.”
“I would like a list of your current and recent guests as soon as you can manage.”
“Certainly. I’ll have Gretchen bring it to you.”
“How long have you been in Edinburgh?” said Ian.
“Let me think . . . it’s going on seven years, now, isn’t it, Gretchen?”
The girl nodded vigorously as she refilled Madame’s teacup. “Ja, sieben Jahre.”
“And Gretchen has been with you the whole time?” the sergeant said, writing in his notebook.
“I don’t know what I’d do without her,” she replied with a sigh. “More milk, please, dear,” she added, and Gretchen scurried over with the cream pitcher.
“She came over with you from . . . ?” said Ian.
“Europe,” Madame Veselka answered with a smug little smile.
The cat that ate the canary, Ian thought. “Could you be more specific?” he said, knowing it was a lost cause.
“Here and there. We both moved around a lot.”
Dickerson was undeterred. “But you were born where?”
“I am Russian, and Gretchen is from a Prussian family.”
“May I ask what is your surname?” Ian said to Gretchen.
“Mueller,” she replied softly. “It is German for—”
“Miller,” said Ian. “I have a little German.”
“A common enough name,” Madame said, sniffing.
“Did Miss Staley socialize with any of your other guests—outside of your séances, I mean?” said Ian.
“I know very little of what goes on outside of here, I’m afraid. I wish I could be more helpful,” she said, rising, “but I have a private consultation arriving any minute, and I must prepare myself.”
“Thank you for your time,” Ian said, handing Gretchen his teacup.
Sergeant Dickerson stood up, a cascade of pastry crumbs tumbling to the floor like sailors deserting a sinking ship. “Here’s my card if y’think of anythin’ else.” Gretchen stepped forward and took it, handing it to the madame. “Ta very much fer tea an’ cakes.”
“She really was anxious to speak with you, you know,” Madame Veselka told Ian, laying a heavily jeweled hand on his arm.
He recoiled from her touch and mumbled something about being late for another interview.